


Linked by Destiny

by CreativWit, Rose_SK



Series: Wit and Haven's Eskel Whump Dump [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Backstory, Bingo, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Druid Eskel, Druids, Eskel Whump (The Witcher), Flashbacks, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Still a Witcher, Graphic Description, Hurt Eskel (The Witcher), Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fill, Soft Eskel (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 22:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativWit/pseuds/CreativWit, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_SK/pseuds/Rose_SK
Summary: "Master druid!" a small man Eskel instantly recognised as Bartek, a local farmer who lives not far from Eskel's home, called out to him. "Master druid, please !""Well met, Bartek! How can I help you, my good man ?""There's... a witcher, sir. He's... hurt," Bartek managed to pant out between laboured breaths, "he's dying, me thinks. He needs urgent care.""Guide me to him."Eskel wasn't planning on taking a detour. It was dark already and it was dangerous for anyone to be seen travelling in these times of war. But healing people was Eskel’s profession and his duty. He would be damned if he let anyone die on his watch without at least trying his very best to heal them first.____Prompt fill Drifting Apart/Grieving for The Writing Corner Bingo Challenge
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: Wit and Haven's Eskel Whump Dump [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108274
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	Linked by Destiny

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CreativWit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreativWit/gifts).



> This.... concept of Druid Eskel has been on my mind for months. I shamelessly used the bingo event organised by The Writing Corner on Discord to explore the idea. This could and would have turned into a multi-chaptered fic if I was left unattended for too long. Thank god, CreativWit was there to ground me throughout the process... and to take over when my wrists gave out. Thanks, Wit. You're the best <3

"Master druid!" a small man Eskel instantly recognised as Bartek, a local farmer who lives not far from Eskel's home, called out to him. "Master druid, please !"

"Well met, Bartek! How can I help you, my good man ?"

"There's... a witcher, sir. He's... hurt," Bartek managed to pant out between laboured breaths, "he's dying, me thinks. He needs urgent care."

"Guide me to him."

Eskel wasn't planning on taking a detour. It was dark already and it was dangerous for anyone to be seen travelling in these times of war. But healing people was Eskel’s profession and his duty. He would be damned if he let anyone die on his watch without at least trying his very best to heal them first.

"Over here, master druid." Bartek was bent over a tall man with silver hair and a nasty-looking bite on his leg. "Don't worry, master witcher. There's a druid here to help ya."

Eskel dismounted his horse and went to kneel next to the wounded man. He rested a hand on the witcher's shoulder and squeezed in what he hoped was a reassuring manner.

"How long has he been like this?" Eskel asked the farmer, who, bless his soul, looked genuinely concerned for the witcher's well-being.

"Our paths crossed last night. I was moving dead bodies out of the way. There's rarely any dignity in death, or so my grandmother used to say, but believe you me, master druid, if you'd seen the massacre.... I couldn't let these corpses rot and risk being trampled by a passing army. They deserved better than that."

Eskel nodded his head patiently, his hand moving up to feel the witcher's forehead. He was quickly burning up.

"I was ambushed by ghouls. This witcher saved my life. It's only right that I return the favour."

Eskel's eyes darted to the festering wound on the witcher's leg. As gently as he could, Eskel prodded the affected area to assess the extent of the damage. The witcher groaned in pain and Eskel whispered a soft apology.

"Bartek, would you mind ? Bring me my satchels, please."

"Certainly."

Bartek scampered away, giving Eskel some space to work. His hazel eyes met the witcher's cat-like amber orbs. Despite the fever, the man seemed surprisingly lucid. Any other human would've died from the injuries and the poison. But this witcher's heartbeat, four times slower than a human's pulse, had spared him from this fate.

"My name is Eskel. Don't be scared. I can heal you."

"I...," the witcher croaked, swallowing thickly to lubricate his dry tongue and vocal chords, "I thought I recognised you..."

Eskel frowned, but chose not to comment on that statement. Clearly a fever could make anyone, even witchers, appear delusional.

"Don't talk. You'll only exhaust yourself more."

"Eskel..."

"Master druid, here's your satchel," Bartek interrupted them as he handed Eskel his bag, "you think you can save him?"

"Yes. It'll be painful, but this man has probably been through worse."

Bartek huffed in surprise.

"Worse than being poisoned by ghouls and dying of a festering wound?"

Eskel bit the inside of his cheek. He'd read up on witchers after hearing many a story told about them within the community he grew up in. Eskel had hoped that his research would disprove some of the horrendous theories he'd heard about witchers and how they're created. He had been horrified to find out that all the rumours were, in fact, true. Eskel forced the dark thoughts away. He couldn't allow himself to spiral now. He needed to help this man. 

"Yes, Bartek. Much worse."

Eskel worked quickly. He mixed juniper and burdock to neutralize the toxins and fight the gangrene. Once he had mixed the herbs into a thick paste, Eskel used his fingers to massage the paste onto the wound. His actions were met by a drawn-out, guttural groan from the witcher, who instinctively grabbed Eskel by the wrist and squeezed to the point where Eskel worried the man might forget his own strength and break a bone.

"I know it's painful, but I need to stop the infection."

"I'm sorry...," the witcher muttered, but didn't relent his hold on Eskel's wrist. "I'm sorry, Eskel..."

"You need to let go of me. I promise after I've done this I'll feed you some valerian to help you sleep."

The witcher finally released Eskel's wrist, the gods be blessed, allowing the druid to get back to work. Bartek, who had been a silent observer to the scene until now, moved away to tend to his cart and horse. Eskel guessed that Bartek’s stomach couldn’t handle the sight of the gangrenous wound any longer.

"Thank you, master witcher. I promise it will only hurt for another few minutes."

"I should've come back... I promised. I'm sorry, Kel."

Eskel's hands paused, fingers hovering over the festering wound. His experience said to keep moving, but there was something about the way a vice grip had tightened itself around his heart that made him still.

"I...what did you just call me?"

"Master druid, is everything alright?" Bartek asked from where he was standing, fiddling with his hands nervously. Sweat beaded the poor man's forehead as he anxiously glanced between Eskel's motionless hands and the witcher's injury.

"I'm sorry," the witcher mumbled, voice nearly incoherent but no less sincere. "I'm sorry. Forgive me."

Eskel sucked in a sharp breath, eyebrows drawing in. This man...No one's called him that name in a very long time. It was one thing for this witcher to know his real name. That, he could forgive. A master druid is bound to be known around these parts. It was quite another to be called a nickname he hasn't heard in decades, but which was tied to so many memories. 

Eskel shook the intrusive thoughts away. Now was not the time to get distracted. He had a job to do. Though, he never could never quite fully draw his attention away from the suffering witcher in front of him. Something about this man struck Eskel as too familiar, even though he was sure he never met this man in his life. He would remember hair like that, amber eyes that pierced the night. How could he ever forget features like those?

His hands moved once more, intent on finishing his task. He had a job to do. Now was not the time for foolish wishes and desires. As the juniper and burdock mixture took root, Eskel rummaged around his satchel for a little box containing his last remaining stock of valerian flowers.

"I promised... I promised..."

"Chew on this," Eskel gently instructed, ignoring the way his hands shook as he fed the witcher the valerian, "it'll send you to sleep."

"Eskel... Don't leave me."

"I'm right here, master witcher," Eskel kept his tone calm and steady, for the hallucinating witcher's sake as much as his own, "Bartek, I know this is a lot to ask, but would you mind following me to my hut with your carriage?"

"Master druid," Bartek stammered as he anxiously rubbed his pudgy hands together, "my wife and daughter will be expecting me home with food for winter. I'm sorry."

Eskel offered a kind smile in return.

"Don't apologise. Your family needs you. It would be selfish of me to keep you away from them."

"Don't leave, Eskel." The witcher's fingers encircled Eskel's wrist once again, softer this time but no less urgent. The desperation of the witcher's plea to him compelled Eskel to meet the amber gaze. "Don't leave..."

"I won't. Sleep, master witcher."

It didn't take much longer before the witcher drifted into a peaceful sleep and his hold on Eskel relaxed. The druid let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Go home, Bartek. Go to your family. No more moving bodies off the dirt track, you hear me? Head straight home."

Bartek hesitated, but Eskel's piercing glare convinced the farmer to comply. Bartek returned to his horse and cart, casting one last look over his shoulder at the sleeping witcher. 

"Stay safe, master druid. It would be terrible indeed if news of your death were to reach us."

Eskel acknowledged those words with a solemn nod of the head and a grateful smile. 

"Take care, Bartek."

"Farewell, master druid."

__________

_ "Eskel! Do you want to play knight again?" a skinny boy with bright green eyes and tousled chestnut hair called from across the clearing. Eskel brought a hand up to his forehead to shield his eyes from the glare of the sunlight.  _

_ "Only if I get to be the mage again!" Eskel shouted back.  _

_ "You can be the mage who helps me, Sir Geralt of Lancelot, slay the dragon Fafnir Destroyer of the Lands…"  _

_ "You can't be Geralt of Lancelot," said Eskel as he ran up to his friend, "Lancelot  _ is  _ a knight. It doesn't work!"  _

_ The boy Geralt rolled his eyes in response, small fists coming to rest on his hips in a challenging manner.  _

_ "Fine. What do you suggest, since you're so smart?" _

_ Eskel thought briefly mulled it over, the tip of his tongue poking out as it always did when he was reflecting on something. Eskel suddenly clicked his fingers when an idea struck him. _

_ "I know. Mama said that she recently visited Rivia. You could be Geralt of Rivia?"  _

_ Geralt spoke the title out loud several times and found that he liked the way it rolled off his tongue. The more he repeated the title to himself, the wider his smirk grew. Sir Geralt of Rivia…  _

_ "That works. I like it." Geralt beamed at Eskel. "And you're Eskel, the greatest mage in all the land." _

_ "And together," Eskel added, his voice growing bolder and solemn, "we shall defeat Fafnir Destroyer of the Lands, and bring peace to the Continent once and for all!"  _

_ "And we'll share the dragon's loot between ourselves!" Geralt brandished a large stick, his makeshift sword, as he declared those words. "What are we waiting for then, O Grand Master Eskel? Follow me!"  _

__________

Eskel built a small campfire and got settled for a long night in the open. He didn’t make a habit of sleeping outside, especially not in recent times. With the war turning more bloody with each passing day it wasn’t safe for anyone to be found roaming the roads on their own. War also meant more corpses and corpses tended to attract all kinds of scavengers. Necrophages, yes, but also starved wild dogs, wolves, bears occasionally. All of the above would settle for the rotting flesh of corpses, but they certainly wouldn’t refuse a taste of fresh flesh. Eskel had to be careful. 

The witcher twitched and mumbled in his sleep, but did not wake. Eskel periodically checked on the wound and found that it was healing up nicely. He recalled reading that witchers’ metabolisms allowed for faster healing, together with their home-brewed potions. Eskel’s expert botanical knowledge would have to do for the time being. 

“Renfri… Renfri…,” the witcher murmured in his sleep. Renfri.. A female name. Perhaps a past lover? Eskel’s research had taught him that the mutagens injected into young boys’ systems at the witcher schools allowed, amongst other gruesome things, to strip them from any kind of emotion. Eskel knew his curiosity was probably misplaced. 

“Eskel… Kel… I’m sorry.”

There it was again, that  _ nickname _ . Eskel tried to rationalise it. It had to be a coincidence, there was no other explanation for this. This man, whom Eskel had just met, couldn’t possibly know about… unless… no, no it couldn’t be. It was a coincidence, a slip of the tongue, nothing but the tired mumbling of a weak and wounded man. And yet, only one person had ever called Eskel by that nickname. Hearing it again after so many years… it brought back many memories, memories Eskel had willed himself to forget. 

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

__________

_ “I’m sorry,” Geralt quickly apologised, instantly dropping his stick when he realised his mistake, “I’m sorry Kel, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” _

_ “It’s okay,” Eskel hissed between clenched teeth, his hand rubbing soothingly at his shoulder where Geralt’s stick struck him mere moments ago, “just be careful next time.” _

_ “Do you want to carry the stick for a while? You can be the knight!” _

_ Eskel smiled. Geralt  _ never  _ let anyone else be the knight. The other children of the community hated him for it, called him selfish and refused to play with him, but not Eskel. Eskel didn’t mind not being the knight - he would much rather be a mage. _

_ “I don’t want to be the knight, Geralt,” Eskel reassured him and he didn’t fail to notice the way Geralt slumped with relief at his friend’s words. _

_ “You know, just because you’re a mage doesn’t mean you can’t have a sword?”  _

_ “I suppose you’re right,” Eskel admitted, his eyes scanning the surrounding forest for a suitable tree branch to use as a weapon. He picked up a reasonably thick branch and waved it in Geralt’s face for his approval. “What do you think of this one?” _

_ “Perfect,” Geralt exclaimed, a toothy grin plastered on his face, “now come one, Grand Master Eskel! We have a dragon to kill.” _

_ Both boys charged into the forest again, wielding their imaginary swords and fighting imaginary foes without a care in the world.  _

__________

The witcher stirred away several hours shy of sunrise. Eskel was by his side in a flash and placed a placating hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Don’t move. Your wound is still fresh, I still need to stitch it up.” The witcher’s eyes blinked open and came to rest on Eskel. He forced a reassuring smile - kindness went a long way, Eskel had learned over his many years of being a druid and a community healer, no matter how reluctantly the sentiment was returned. “You were saved by your pulse. Four times slower than a normal man’s.”

“I'm a witcher,” the man rasped in response, “but you knew that already.”

“I did,” Eskel confirmed before resting the palm of his hand on the man’s sweaty forehead. The high fever was, thankfully, beginning to break. 

“Thank you,” the witcher added softly, almost as an afterthought, “thank you for saving me.”

“I heard a farmer’s cry for help on my way back from the market. It’s my profession,” Eskel remarked casually, “I’m a druid.”

“I’m glad our paths crossed then,” the man whispered, “my… my satchels. I have potions in there…”

“They won’t be needed,” Eskel maintained, “I  _ just  _ managed to rid your body of the necrophages toxins, I’m not about to pump more into your system.”

“These potions accelerate… the healing process,” the man’s explanation was interrupted by a pained groan that Eskel’s prodding pulled from him, “I need to head back to town. Get my horse.”

The witcher went to sit up, but Eskel’s strong hand pushed him back down firmly. Sometimes Eskel underestimated his own strength. 

“You’re not going anywhere, master witcher. I need to stitch you up.”

“You haven’t done so already?” the silver-haired man questioned as he raised an equally white eyebrow, “didn’t they teach you that at druid school?”

Eskel may or may not have squeezed the affected area on the man’s leg tighter than was absolutely necessary. The pained hiss and muffled string of curses that ensued brought a small smile to the druid’s lips. 

“I don’t question your methods, master witcher,” Eskel’s hazel eyes met the other man’s amber gaze easily, “don’t question mine.”

“You literally questioned my use of healing potions,” the witcher retorted.

“That’s because your potions are doing more harm than good.”

“For humans, yes. I’m a mutant. They work for me.”

Eskel ignored that last statement in favour of retrieving a small bottle of vodka, needle and thread from his pack. Without a word, he uncorked the bottle with his teeth and spat the cap onto the ground next to him. Eskel poured the entire content of the bottle over the witcher’s wound, whispering soft praises when the man tensed and yelped in surprise. 

“Stay still. This will hurt.”

“I’ll manage.”

Eskel worked quickly, with a precision and professionalism unequalled in these parts of the Continent - or so his customers kept telling him. The witcher tried to hide his pain, but Eskel recognised the tell-tale signs. The tensing of his jaw, the twitching of his leg whenever Eskel came close to the wound with his needle, the large hands balling into fists every time Eskel pricked his needle through the sensitive skin. He had used the last of his valerian on the man to help him sleep. All the more reason for Eskel to make a swift job of this. 

“How did you-,” the witcher’s question was cut short by a guttural groan when Eskel reached the most sensitive part of the wound, “ _ fuck _ .”

“My apologies. We’re nearly done.”

“How did you get the scars on your face?” the man finally managed to ask, his breaths coming in short pants as he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and focused on regulating his breathing. Eskel swallowed thickly and resisted the urge to rub at the old injury, a habit he had not been able to shake since obtaining the scars that marred the right side of his face.

“It’s a long story, master witcher.”

“We… we have time,” the man panted, “unless my curiosity is misplaced.”

It wasn’t, not really. Eskel didn’t mind telling his story to people. It happened so long ago, sometimes Eskel found himself forgetting they were there. He had come to accept his scars over the years, even though he couldn’t deny that the looks he got from people and the way some actively avoided him because of his appearance tugged at his heartstrings. 

“It happened a long time ago when I was a child…”

__________

_ "Die, dragon, die!” Geralt cried out as he stuck his stick into the ground, where their pretend dragon was currently bleeding out and dying from the fatal wounds. Eskel brought both his hands together and roared as he imagined a wall of flame emerging from the palm of his hands as he finished off the beast.  _

_ “We did it, Sir Geralt. We killed Fafnir Destroyer of the Continent.” _

_ “And now, the loot is ours to take.” _

_ Geralt dropped his stick and ran up to a row of strawberry bushes growing just off the dirty path. Eskel followed him and both boys feasted on the fresh fruit until their bellies hurt from eating too many strawberries. They could hear the loud twittering of birds, the water gently lapping at the riverbanks and the rustling of the leaves above them.  _

_ “You fought well, Grand Master Eskel.” _

_ “And so did you, Sir Geralt.” _

_ The boys erupted into a fit of giggles which echoed in the surrounding forest. In the distance, the boys could make out the edges of the druidic settlement. They had probably wandered further than their parents would have liked, but as long as they could still see the village they felt safe.  _

_ The sudden snapping of twigs nearby pulled both boys out of their daydreaming.  _

_ “Eskel,” Geralt whispered urgently, his green eyes widening in fear, “look.” _

_ Eskel looked in the same direction and his heart dropped in his chest at what he saw there. Before them, only a very short distance away, stood a very tall  _ thing _ very similar to a tree in appearance, with a deer skull as a head and branches for arms.  _

_ “What is that?” Eskel asked, his voice barely above a whisper, unable to tear his eyes away from the monster. Geralt didn’t get the chance to reply that the monster let out a blood-curling roar and started heading in the boys’ direction. The world around them seemed to darken as the creature stretched out its branch-like limbs as if to snatch Eskel and Geralt. _

_ “Run!” Eskel screamed before taking off in the opposite direction. They had to run back to the village and warn people. Someone at the village could help, Eskel was sure of it. The boy ran as fast as his legs would carry him without looking back.  _

_ “Eskel!” Geralt cried, his voice unusually high-pitched, “Eskel, help me!” _

_ Eskel came to a sudden halt and turned around to find the monster quickly closing in on Geralt, who was  _ literally  _ rooted to the spot and unable to get away from the creature’s vice-like grip. Eskel’s heart skipped several beats at the sight. Geralt was going to die if Eskel didn’t do  _ something  _ to stop the creature from hurting him.  _

_ “Eskel! Help me!” _

_ Eskel ran, towards the monster and Geralt this time, his panic long forgotten as anger took over. No one, absolutely nobody, would hurt Geralt on his watch. The creature looked up and calmly watched Eskel running at it, guided by blind rage and adrenaline. Geralt was crying, the sound of his panicked sobs only fuelling Eskel’s rage.  _

_ “Get away from him,” Eskel screamed at the creature after throwing himself in front of Geralt, shielding his friend’s body with his own, “get. away. from. him!” _

_ Another bestial roar resounded in the forest as the monster swung one of its branches at the two boys, hitting Eskel right across the right cheek. Eskel instinctively brought a hand to his face and felt something slick where the monster struck him. Blood. His own blood.  _

_ “Eskel! Kel! Kel, it got you. Eskel!” _

_ The pain, though delayed slightly thanks to the adrenaline flowing through Eskel’s veins, was overwhelming and pulled an agonising scream from the young boy. Eskel could vaguely hear Geralt crying out his name, like he was shouting at him across a great distance. Eskel’s cheek felt like it had been marked with a scorching branding iron, the affected area swelling, throbbing and pissing blood.  _

_ “Quen!” a third voice, unfamiliar and foreign, bellowed unexpectedly, making both Eskel and Geralt flinch. Eskel looked up and noticed a golden dome over his and Geralt’s head. The creature roared once again, but thankfully turned their backs on the two boys to face… something else. Or someone else. Eskel couldn’t be sure.  _

_ All he knew was that someone had come to their rescue and that he and Geralt were safe... at least for now.  _

__________

“Turns out we were attacked by a leshen and saved by a witcher. We were two lucky bastards back then, let me tell you that much,” Eskel added, huffing out a laugh as he spoke those last words, “there we are. All stitched up.”

When Eskel met the witcher’s gaze, his easy smile faltered. The man with the silver hair and amber eyes was staring at him like Eskel had grown a second head. The piercing gaze was almost too much - Eskel felt this inexplicable urge to hide his scars. He cleared his throat nervously and tilted his head away from the witcher as he put away his tools. 

“What did you say your friend’s name was?” the witcher asked suddenly, voice oddly strangled. Eskel frowned. 

“I didn’t.”

The howling of wolves caught both men’s attention. The witcher cursed under his breath. 

“We need to leave,” he announced before pushing himself onto his feet, “is there a town nearby we could find shelter in?”

“No,” Eskel admitted, “but my hut is but a half hour ride away. You’re coming with me. You need to rest that leg.”

“As much as I appreciate the offer, I-”

“My apologies,” Eskel interrupted the other man’s protests, “but the offer is not negotiable. In fact, calling it an ‘offer’ is perhaps misleading. It’s an order. You’re coming back with me if I have to drag you all the way.”

Eskel noticed the witcher hesitate. If the man really wanted to he could’ve incapacitated Eskel effortlessly and stolen his horse. That, fortunately, did not happen and Eskel even noticed the shadow of a smile playing on the witcher’s lips. 

“Fine. Lead the way.”

“You’re riding my horse,” Eskel decreed firmly, “do you need help getting into the saddle?”

“You tell me, master druid. I’m surprised you’re giving me a choice in the matter,” the witcher teased, his smirk growing when Eskel spluttered indignantly at the statement. 

“You know, I am now truly tempted to tie you up and have my horse drag you all the way to my home. I should warn you though, the trail gets muddy this time of year. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to your pretty hair.”

“Alright, alright,” the man relented, raising both his hands in a placating manner, “I should be fine getting onto the saddle by myself.” 

Despite the witcher’s confidence, Eskel kept a close eye on him in case he needed to intervene. Once he had quelled the fire and packed his belongings, Eskel stepped up to his faithful stallion and attached his bag to the saddle before feeding Scorpion an apple for his efforts. 

“There’s a good boy,” he praised the horse, who merely offered a moody snort in reply. Eskel cast a look over his shoulder and found the witcher staring at him pensively. “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

Eskel did not pry anymore as he guided Scorpion back onto the dirt trail. 

__________

_ "Master witcher,” Eskel’s father, Darragh the community’s chieftain, spoke in a ceremonial tone, “you have saved my people from the leshen lurking in our forests. But more importantly, you have saved my only son and his friend from this beast. The gods know where they would be without your assistance.” _

_ “Dead,” the witcher deadpanned, his thick moustache twitching slightly as he uttered the word. Eskel felt his mother pull him closer to her chest and whisper a quick spell into his ear. Her voice hitched in her throat as she traced her son’s injury and Eskel could feel her tears drop onto his hand. He hated to be the reason for his mother crying.  _

_ “We don’t have much to offer you in recompense, master witcher. Name a price and it is yours,” Darragh offered, his eyes not leaving his wounded son for a minute. Eskel noticed the worry reflected in his father’s eyes.  _

_ “We’re always looking for more recruits,” the moustached witcher told Darragh, “and I saw your son jump in front of his friend to protect him from a leshen. He will make a fine witcher one day.” _

_ “No,” Eskel’s mother exclaimed firmly, her hold on her son tightening, “you aren’t taking my child away from me. We owe you our lives, master witcher, but what you’re asking is too high a price.” _

_ “Aisling-” _

_ “No, Darragh. Not our son. Don’t you remember how difficult it was for us to have Eskel in the first place? I won’t part with him, I won’t.” _

_ Darragh sighed. _

_ “I know, sweet woman, but this witcher is entitled to a reward,” Eskel’s father tried to reason his wife, but she stubbornly held onto her only son. _

_ “I don’t deny that he is, but he isn’t getting my son. There are other boys in the community. Take one of them instead.” _

_ “You would offer up a child that isn’t your own?” the witcher asked with a raised eyebrow.  _

_ “You’d be surprised what I’m willing to do to protect my child. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, master witcher,” Aisling sneered, her tone scathing, “witchers don’t feel any emotions, it’s a well-known fact. You wouldn’t know what it feels like to love someone more than your own life.” _

_ “Aisling, that’s enough,” Darragh interrupted, his face contorted in a pained expression as he turned to face the witcher who saved his community, “I will only reluctantly part with my only son master witcher, you understand. But we’ve noticed great potential in one of our boys recently. Visenna’s son, Geralt…” _

_ “No!” Eskel muttered weakly under his breath. His mother was quick to hush him up. _

_ “Geralt? The boy your son saved?” _

_ “No, papa, you can’t let him take Geralt!” Eskel exclaimed, tears welling up in his arms.  _

_ “Hush, my little one,” Aisling cooed softly, “calm down. Your wounds are still fresh, don’t work yourself up over nothing.” _

_ “Geralt isn’t nothing!” _

_ “Enough, Eskel!” Darragh snapped, his patience running thin, something Eskel rarely got to experience. His father was an even-tempered man, he had never raised his voice on anyone. “Geralt is going with the witcher. End of discussion.” _

__________

“How can I repay you for saving my life?” the witcher asked Eskel as they reached his hut. Eskel helped the man dismount Scorpion before ridding the beast of his heavy saddle and sneaking him another apple. 

“I told you, master witcher. It’s my profession. No payment needed,” Eskel assured him. 

“You expect me to believe that you treat every patient for free?” 

“Of course not,” Eskel scratched the back of Scorpion’s ear before leading the way to his home, “but I’m not in this line of work for the profit. You needed help, I saved you. Simple as that.”

“Nothing is ever that simple,” the silver-haired man muttered under his breath, “but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

That evening, a storm rolled in and the skies parted to give way to diluvian rain. Eskel was grateful for the fact that he had patched up Scorpion’s stables not too long ago, or the poor beast would be in for a long and unpleasant night. Eskel got a fire roaring in the hearth and brewed some tea for himself and his guest. The witcher looked uncomfortable, but Eskel expected as much. He knew how difficult it was for some people to accept the hospitality of others, especially when the host wasn’t expecting anything in return. 

“Did you always want to be a druid?” the witcher enquired just as Eskel finished filling two mugs with steaming tea. 

“My father was the chieftain of a druid community and my mother was a healer. I grew up surrounded by druids and sorcerers. It was self-evident that I became one as well. My father taught me everything I know.”

“You have magical powers,” the witcher remarked, catching Eskel off guard, “my medallion vibrates when you’re close.”

“Ah,” Eskel scratched at the scar tissue on the right side of his face, “yes, apparently I’ve had magical abilities from a very young age. The sorceresses in my community could sense Chaos in me. I can cast simple charms and spells, but nothing quite as extraordinary as what regular mages can accomplish. Or witchers, for that matter.”

“Hm.” 

The witcher blew on his tea before taking a sip. The two men sat in companionable silence for a while, but Eskel could sense that the man sitting opposite him was growing restless. It was the small things Eskel noticed. The twitching of his leg, the way he drummed his fingers on the table, the tense jaw. Eskel was nothing if not patient, so he allowed his guest some time to find the right words to express what he wanted to say.

“You… you remind me of someone I once knew.” Eskel wasn’t too sure what he expected the man to say, but  _ this _ certainly didn’t even make the list. “My, uh… my best friend growing up, he was… his memory was the only thing keeping me going through the trials. I… I made a promise to myself to find him when I completed my training. I went back to our village and found that it had been destroyed. I…”

The mutations stripped witchers of any emotion… what a load of horseshit. Looking at the man sitting opposite of him, Eskel could see the hurt flashing in the amber eyes very clearly. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” was all Eskel could say. The witcher huffed out a humourless laugh in response. “I can’t begin to imagine how you must’ve felt that day when you returned to the village.”

“Hm. I also remember something else from my childhood. My mother used to say that people linked by destiny will always find each other. So maybe, who knows… maybe one day we’ll be reunited, Destiny be willing.”

_ “Don’t be sad, Eskel,”  _ the voice of a six-year-old boy echoed in Eskel’s mind,  _ “I’ll find you again. When I’m a witcher, I’ll come back for you. People linked by Destiny will always find each other.” _

“Wh-what?” Eskel stammered, his heart now racing in his chest. The witcher frowned at the reaction. 

“Are you alright, master druid?” 

_ “I can’t live without you, Geralt. Please. Don’t leave.”  _ Eskel recognised his own broken voice, the memory from a very long time ago taking him by surprise and knotting his throat so that he was unable to respond to the witcher’s question.  _ “Geralt, please. You can’t go with him. Please.” _

“Your mother,” Eskel whispered absent-mindedly, his eyes staring blankly at the wooden surface of his kitchen table, “what was her name?”

“Beg your pardon?”

“Your mother’s name, master witcher” Eskel repeated, his tone betraying his impatience as his eyes met the other man’s almost pleadingly, “her name. What was it?”

The witcher hesitated, brows set in a deep frown. 

“Visenna.”

_ We’ve noticed great potential in one of our boys recently. Visenna’s son, Geralt… _

“It’s you,” Eskel felt tears well up on his eyes as he breathed those words between him and the other man, “it’s you. Geralt.”

“How do you…,” the witcher paused, his eyes wide and jaw slack, “no. It can’t…”

“Geralt. What… what have they done to your eyes?” Eskel asked. It was clearly the wrong thing to ask. Geralt, for Eskel was now convinced that this  _ was  _ his childhood best friend sitting in his home, swallowed thickly as he pondered his next words carefully. The amber eyes shimmered with all the emotions that remained unspoken between them. “And… your hair… Geralt, what have they done to you?”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not coming back for you like I promised.” 

Eskel … didn’t know how to respond. He briefly wondered if this was his mind playing a cruel trick on him. Perhaps he was dreaming again. After all, Eskel would be lying if he said that he never thought about reuniting with Geralt. He had, but… not for a very long time, mostly because Eskel had convinced himself that his childhood friend, cruelly taken away from him, was dead. His research on witchers had yielded many gruesome details about the trials, but only one of those had stuck with Eskel through the years.  _ Only three in ten boys who are subjected to the Trials of the Grasses survive _ . 

“I… I can’t believe you’re alive. I thought…”

“I thought you were dead too when I saw the village destroyed,” Geralt interrupted Eskel’s bewildered stammering, “I never… that’s why I stopped looking. I thought… I was convinced you were dead too, Kel.”

Eskel didn’t know what to do with himself. He rose from his chair, paced the room, tried to make sense of what Geralt was telling him, tried to wrap his head around the fact that Geralt was  _ alive _ . He looked different, spoke differently, didn’t smile as much, but… this was arguably the same Geralt Eskel saved from the leshen that day. The same Geralt who was taken away. The same Geralt who was indirectly the reason for Eskel’s scars. 

“As for my eyes and my hair,” Geralt spoke, seemingly eager to fill the uncomfortable silence, “they’re a product of the mutations. I… I withstanded the first round of trials surprisingly well, so I was selected for further experiments. The shock made me lose all pigmentation in my hair.”

_ Further experiments?  _ Eskel felt sick to his stomach. 

“It was supposed to be me,” Eskel mumbled, too softly for a human to pick up on what he was saying, but Geralt’s enhanced sense clearly had no trouble understanding him. “The witcher who came for you wanted to take me. Because I stupidly jumped in front of the leshen to… to…”

“To save me,” Geralt finished the sentence for him, tone uncharacteristically soft. 

“It was supposed to be me going through all this, not you. I… It’s  _ I  _ who should be sorry, Geralt. I should’ve fought harder for you, I should’ve tried to convince my father… it should’ve been me.”

Eskel didn’t know when or how he ended up on his bed, back resting against the wall, legs pulled to his chest and face buried in his knees. He could also not recall hearing Geralt stand up and join him there, but soon he felt a strong hand resting on his shoulder and just like that, almost as if Geralt’s hand magically opened the floodgates, Eskel cried. He cried harder than he had in years. 

“It should’ve been me… it should’ve been me,” Eskel kept repeating, his voice strangled as he forced the words out in between sobs.

“I survived. I found you, Kel. Visenna was right. People linked by destiny will always find each other.”

Eskel cried for hours, it seemed. At some point, Geralt kicked off his boots and climbed into bed with Eskel so he could wrap his strong arms around his shivering form and pull him to an equally firm chest. Eskel buried his face in the crook of Geralt’s neck. He smelled of sweat, dirt and rain, but underneath all of this Eskel recognised the familiar smell of his childhood. This was Geralt.  _ His  _ Geralt. 

“Don’t leave. Never leave me again. Please.”

And if Geralt spent that entire of winter with Eskel instead of travelling back to Kaer Morhen like he initially planned to do… and if Geralt spent the rest of his years returning to Eskel whenever he had the chance to… well that was his fucking business and no one else’s. 


End file.
